


Vibrate to that Iron String

by athena4lynn



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:53:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena4lynn/pseuds/athena4lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint's hearing is damaged, Natasha learns to trust Coulson, and both of them help Clint get his groove back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vibrate to that Iron String

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to sternel and delle for beta. You guys are awesome.

Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

**SHIELD HEADQUARTERS – Fall, 2006**

The first thing Clint noticed when he awoke was the silence. It wasn’t complete, there was a dull humming he couldn’t quite decipher, but it was unusual and that made it significant. He stayed silent, unmoving, letting the rest of his senses kick in – assessing the situation – before he let his return to consciousness be known.

There was no breeze, no movement of air at all. And the air itself smelled stale, metallic even. No, not metallic, antiseptic. It was antiseptic, with a hint of …lavender?

His lip quirked and he risked opening one eye, not surprised by the bright florescent of the overhead lights, nor the sight of the bowed auburn head next to him.

Medical. Natasha.

“Tasha…” His voice was weak, and it barely registered in his own ears, not getting above the humming. But her head shot up immediately, and the tears streaking her face sent his heart into his throat. “Tash …” He frowned, he still couldn’t seem to break through the buzzing.

He opened his mouth to speak again and she shook her head, silencing him with a look. The look was soft and worried; Clint felt his chest tighten. Something was very, very wrong. His fist clenched at his side, the tape holding in his IV tugging at the hairs on his hand.

Silently – too silently, in a room filled with metal – she rose from her seat, taking down the bars on the side of his bed. He felt, rather than heard, the rattle of the bars and the tightness in his chest became a vise grip as he stared at them, unable to pull his eyes away.

The mattress gave a little and still he couldn’t move, couldn’t raise his eyes until he felt Natasha’s fingers under his chin, forcing them upwards. He met her eyes, seeing the same worry there he’d caught before, but also a stubbornness that belied the fear.

For a long moment, they remained that way, eyes locked before she removed her fingers, running them gently along his cheek. When her lips started to move, he already knew what she was going to say, but he watched them carefully. Years of training made it easy.

“There was an accident,” she said, slowly, enunciating every word. She paused, tilting her head, and he knew she was making sure he understood. He nodded, his eyes flitting quickly to hers, his own fear shining in them, before focussing again on her lips. “That explosion, in Belarus…” 

She paused again, but this time it was because her attention was pulled away, towards the doorway and a figure he hadn’t heard approach. He kept his eyes down, unwilling to let anyone but Natasha see his fear.

“Nyet.” 

Clint’s head shot up, that one word had pushed through the buzz in his ears: that one word, and Natasha’s voice. After a quick glance at the doorway – there was a man in scrubs there – he focussed his attention back on Natasha. 

“I will not –“ The middle of the sentence faded as she lowered her voice, and Clint frowned, feeling his heart flutter in anticipation. It wasn’t totally gone then. It wasn’t complete. “Fifteen minutes,” Natasha said, voice rising again. “Then the doctor can come.”

The man said something Clint didn’t hear, but he turned in time to see the man back away from the door, shutting in behind him, and was once again struck by the absolute silence that accompanied it. 

Clint swallowed, turning back to Natasha, the fear deepening in the pit of his stomach. “How bad?” he asked, raising his left hand to touch his ear. There was no pain at the touch, but he hadn’t expected there would be. 

Natasha shook her head, reaching for his hand and tracing her thumb along his palm, silent for a long moment. Finally, she squeezed his hand. “They have been waiting for you to wake,” she said, once again over-enunciating her words. “But they think maybe 60 to 70%. You could hear me, before?” She raised an eyebrow and the smile she gave him when he nodded was almost enough to release the vise grip across his chest.

Almost.

They stayed that way for a long time, his hand in hers, their eyes locked together, until the fear was practically an entity of its own between them. “I’m done, aren’t I?” he said finally, voice so quiet it didn’t come close to pushing past the humming. “Benched.”

Her hand tightened on his until it was painful, but he returned the squeeze just as hard. “Coulson is working on it,” she replied, laying her other hand on his cheek. “He thinks –“ She paused, and he could see Black Widow replace Natasha for a moment as she glanced around then room, then she leaned close, mouth right against his ear. “Can you hear me this way?”

“Yes.” He frowned in confusion, and squeezed her hand again, tight. “But go slow.”

He felt her nod and closed his eyes, concentrating on hearing her words. “It was the arrows,” she began, quiet, yet Clint could just make out her words. “The ones Banks gave you. They misjudged the force on them.” She paused, and Clint nodded, urging her to continue. “Coulson thinks he can force Fury’s hand – it was their screw-up. They _owe_ you.” She pulled away then, brushing his cheek with a kiss, and following it with her fingers. 

He watched her for a moment, then nodded, absorbing what she’d said. If Phil was taking on Fury, it might not be end-game. Not yet, anyway. But no matter what Phil and Natasha thought they could achieve, Clint couldn’t get past one basic truth –

He couldn’t do his job if he couldn’t hear.

And if he couldn’t do his job he was a liability – to SHIELD, to Coulson, and to Natasha.

He felt Natasha’s hand on his chest, and looked up, meeting her eyes once more. Her look was disapproving, as though she could read his thoughts, and he felt her nails start into dig into his skin. “We will get through this,” she said, loud enough to be heard through the humming. “Do you hear me?”

Her words struck him funny, and his lips quirked despite his increasing anxiety. “Loud and clear, Nat,” he quipped, trying to infuse his words with confidence. He could tell by the look in her eyes that he’d failed, and brought his hand up to cover the one on his chest. Lacking a better response, he just nodded, dropping his eyes to their hands.

“We will get through this,” she repeated, again pressing through the buzz in his ears. This time, he caught the emphasis on we, and shook his head gently.

“No, ‘Tasha,” he whispered, not able to hear himself, but knowing she could make out his words. “You know how this works better than anyone. SHIELD will cut its losses. They’ll cut me loose, and you should -“ 

Her nails dug into his chest again, harder this time, and he flinched. “Nyet,” she said, and when he raised his eyes, he saw the same fierce determination in hers that he’d seen three years ago when he’d brought her into SHIELD. She’d made her decision. Now that she had his attention, her voice lowered. He knew her well enough that he could _sense_ her tone, despite not being able to hear her words. “If SHIELD won’t help you, we will find someone who will.” She stopped there, but the implication was clear. If they cut him loose, she would follow, and SHIELD would be made to regret their choice.

“Tash –“ She shook her head, giving him the same look that had made him fall silent before. He squeezed her hand, and she turned hers, entwining their fingers.

“The doctor will be back soon,” she said, squeezing tightly. She watched him a long moment, then released his hand, rising from the bed. The lack of contact practically burned, and he clenched his fist against it, feeling suddenly adrift. She must have sensed his reaction – or more likely he failed to hide it – because she leaned close, mouth against his ear. “I have your back, Clint.” 

_Don’t be afraid._

She didn’t say the words, but he saw them in her eyes as she pulled away, brushing his cheek with a lone finger. “I need to tell Coulson you are awake,” she said instead, giving him a soft smile. She was over-enunciating again, letting him read her lips rather than raising her voice. “You will be OK.”

It wasn’t a question, and he knew she didn’t expect a response, but he nodded anyway, slowly pulling himself together. He’d done it hundreds of times before, pushing through fear or pain, but this time was harder. This time there was too much on the line.

But she waited, silently – oh, god, the constant silence – offering him the strength he needed. And slowly, he felt the change. The vise grip didn’t leave his chest, but his fist unclenched, the tension slowly leaving his shoulders. He’d regained some semblance of control, and it seemed to satisfy her as well, because she smiled before turning to leave. 

And when the doctors arrived, he used the memory of that smile to push through.

~*~*~*~

**Three Weeks Later**

Standing on the roof of SHIELD headquarters in New York, Clint closed his eyes, letting the wind whip through his hair and pull at his clothing. It whistled a little in his left ear and his neck twitched in that direction, unconsciously seeking out the sound. 

The worst of the damage had been to his right ear and standing as he was now, straight into the wind, he could _hear_ the difference between left and right; could, with the right level of concentration, distinguish the level of sound in each. 

But maintaining that level of concentration was bringing on a wicked migraine.

Eyes still closed – he knew the roof like the back of his hand – he shifted, taking three steps backwards before his balance failed him. “FUCK!” His shoulder slammed into an exhaust pipe, and his eyes opened, bright with pained tears. Bringing his hand up, he reached for the pipe to steady himself, feeling his eyes begin to tear with more than just pain.

Catching his breath, he turned, sliding down the exhaust pipe and bringing his legs up to his chest. The sob caught in his throat, making him gasp as he leaned forward, head on his knees. “I can’t do it, ‘Tasha,” he said aloud, voice muffled against his knees. 

Her hand stroked along his shoulder gently before coming to rest at the nape of his neck, massaging softly. She didn’t speak, just waited, although he could feel her own tension in the way her hand rested against his skin. When he’d regained his breath he raised his eyes, looking to his left to see her mirroring his own position. “It’s been three weeks, Clint,” she said, thumb sliding along the back of his head, into his hair. “You’re still recovering from the concussion, on top of everything else. You need to be patient.”

“Patience has never been my strong suit.” 

Natasha snorted, tugging at his hair. “You sit on roof-tops waiting for marks. _For days._ I think you’re full of shit.” She tugged his hair again, then pushed at his shoulder. “What did Coulson say?”

He took a deep breath, turning away from her to look out over the city. In the long silence that followed, he tried to focus again, this time on Natasha – the feel of her next to him, the _presence_ of her – and it still took him by surprise when she reached out to touch his shoulder.

He flinched at the touch, and cursed softly. “He said he’s chipped away at Fury,” he replied, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “That he’s talking retraining, not reassignment. And there’s a new guy in the lab, a tech-expert. Phil thinks they’re working on aids.”

Natasha touched his shoulder again, and this time he turned. “This is good news, Clint.”

“Retraining for _what,_ Nat,” he said, voice rising. “And what good are hearing aids on a rooftop in the wind? What kind of liability will I be in the field if they fail?” He pulled himself up from his place on the pipe, stalking away from her. Or rather, he tried to stalk, but, like earlier, his balance faltered, only this time he caught himself, turning on Natasha. “I can’t fucking walk straight, Natasha. What good am I to _anyone_ in a crisis.”

“You need to give yourself time!” There was no need to read her lips, her voice carried across the distance between them, not as loud as it once had been, but clear. She rose then and started towards him, eyes flashing with anger. 

For a moment, barely a second, he considered backing away, but instead he stood his ground – this was not the first time he’d been on the receiving end of Natasha’s anger. “Nat –“

She clasped his shoulder – the one he’d slammed earlier – and brought a leg around, knocking his legs out from under him. Then, catching him by the front of his shirt, she lowered him to the ground, rather than letting him fall, and straddled him, pinning him there. This close, he could see the anger in her eyes fade to disappointment: it had been an easy move, he could have countered it. “I won’t let you give up,” she said fiercely. “You climbed out of a ditch, Barton. You made yourself what you are today. You did it once. You can do it again.” She paused, but when he opened his mouth to speak, she gave him an angry look. “You _will_ do it again.”

He nodded, raising his arms and laying his hands gently on her thighs. Her hands drifted down his chest, then met his, and she covered them, squeezing. “I’m sorry, ‘Tasha,” he whispered. “I feel like –“

“It will be hard,” she interrupted, voice softer this time. She shifted backwards onto his thighs, using his hands to pull him up. It should have been sexual – had been in the past – but not here and not now. Instead, she cupped his face in her hands, fingers stroking the dark circles under his eyes. “But you will come back from this.”

Leaning forward, Clint laid his forehead against Natasha’s, letting his arms come around her as he closed his eyes. “I’ve never been so afraid,” he admitted, voice soft.

“Not in San Juan?” She spoke loud enough that he could hear her, and he couldn’t resist a smile at her words. “Or Jordan?” That one earned a chuckle and he felt her relax a little, hands running along his ribcage.

“No, neither one of those,” he replied, ducking his head against her shoulder. He relaxed into her touch, slowing his breathing, silent for a long moment. “I might have been this afraid when my parents died.”

Natasha made a small noise that he felt, rather than heard, wrapping her arms around him. She tilted her head so her mouth was against his ear. “You’re not alone.”

“I wasn’t then either.”

“You were both children.” He could feel her smile against his cheek. “And I’m far more persuasive.”

He laughed softly. “Among other things,” he said, lightly. Lifting his head, he met her eyes. “Thank you.”

She touched his cheek gently, her own smile lighting her face, before dropping her hand to his shoulder and squeezing. “Up,” she said, sliding backwards until she could rise. “Let’s work on your balance.”

~*~*~*~

**KAZAKHSTAN – Six Weeks Later**

“What the hell are we doing here, Nat?” Clint dropped his pack on the cot closest to the wall and turned to sit on its edge. The safe house was freezing and with his hearing aids in he could hear the wind whipping through the trees outside it. Unwinding his scarf, he unzipped his coat a couple of centimetres, watching her start a fire in the ancient stove.

“SHIELD has been getting reports of a mole in Kalmakanov’s inner circle.” The fire started to catch and Natasha paused a moment to poke at it. “There’s a couple of high-profile political events happening over the next few weeks and Fury wants me at them.” She turned, pulling off her gloves and tossing them on the other cot. “Little bit of schmoozing, little bit of flirting, home in time for Christmas.”

Clint raised an eyebrow at her. “So, let me rephrase. What am _I_ doing here?”

Natasha smirked, but instead of speaking, gestured to him, eyebrow raised. Laughing, Clint rose, crossing the room to stand by the stove, bumping his hip against hers on the way by. “So you’re using me for my body?”

The sign language they’d created between them was a rough combination of the ASL SHIELD was forcing him to learn, symbols and gestures common in foreign countries, and some that were unique to them. Natasha’s gestures had been a mish-mash, but roughly translated to “tension relief”.

“You’ve never complained before,” she replied, pulling off her hat and letting her hair fall loose.

“I’m not complaining now. I just like to know my place.” His smile was teasing, but even he knew his voice sounded flat, and just a little bitter. He sighed, running a hand through his hair as he took off his own hat. “Sorry,” he muttered, bunching the hat in his fist.

Reaching for his hand, Natasha pulled the hat out of it, tossing it onto his cot. “You’ve been cooped up at HQ for nine weeks,” she said, and while her voice was firm, it no longer had the hard edge it had in the first few weeks after the accident. He’d come a long way since then. “I don’t think you’ve even left the building in that time.” She ducked her head, trying to meet his eyes. “Have you?” Ok, maybe not far enough.

“It was sort of hard, before I worked out the balance thing.” Once again, his voice sounded sullen, even to his own ears, and he growled, raising his eyes. “I spent a lot of time on the roof.” Less sullen, but still an excuse.

“Which is really sort of a dumb, considering the lack of balance,” Natasha teased, and she succeeded in making him smile. “You’ve made a lot of progress, but you’re bored and stagnating. This’ll help.”

“How?” Not sullen this time, just an honest question. He unzipped his coat all the way, the heat from the stove finally starting to warm the room. “Despite the temptations,” His look could only really be classed as a leer, and he got the reaction he intended – her hat thrown at his face. “This place isn’t exactly ideal for stimulation.”

She left him at the stove, moving to dig around in her pack. “There’s an open space in the back.” She paused to unzip her own coat, then continued digging. “We can spar, and keep working on your balance.” Pulling a bundle out, she looked up at him, a flash of frustration in her eyes. “And I’ll have intel to sort through. You’re not useless.”

The silence stretched, almost a challenge. “I’m not,” he finally agreed, and for the first time in nine weeks, there wasn’t a question mark at the end. His lips quirked into a grin. “I’m very, very good at tension relief.”

That earned him a laugh, but it didn’t stop her from tossing the bundle in her hand at him harder than was probably necessary. “Open that.”

“What is it?” He returned to his cot, sitting on its edge and letting the contents of the bundle fall into his lap as he rifled through them. “Nat –“ He held up a card – a driver’s license, with his face and the name Travis Kramer on it. “These are cover docs. I’m not cleared ..”

“Not for _active_ duty, no,” she agreed, sitting down next to him. “You won’t be armed, and Fury’s not expecting a full report from you, but you can accompany me to events. Be my wingman.”

“Wingman?” He raised an amused eyebrow, dropping the license back into his lap. His expression turned serious, tension starting to build in his shoulders. “How’d you get Fury to agree to this? You don’t know what could happen out there, you don’t know what could happen to _me_ out there.”

“It’s standard intel gathering,” she replied, pulling her legs up and crossing them underneath her. “Coulson will be on Comm, I’ll be in the room. If something happens, we pull out, and move on to the next event.” She tilted her head, looking at him curiously. “What is it you’re worried about?”

Clint shook his head, looking down at the bundle in his lap. For a moment, he was quiet, worrying at the edge of one of the documents, then he felt her hand on his knee, tracing out letters. 

**B R E A T H E**

Obediently, and almost unconsciously, he took a breath, closing his eyes as he did so. Another moment passed, and he opened them again, turning to look at her. “What if it goes south, and I miss a cue because of these?” His brow furrowed as he gestured to the hearing aids in his ears. “They’re not - They’re shit, Nat, they’re not meant for this. What if –“

She reached out, putting a finger over his lips. “It’s an intel mission, Clint,” she repeated. “It won’t go south, and if it does, I can handle it.” She looked at him firmly. “You go in as my doting husband, enchanted by his beautiful Russian bride, you talk me up to the right people, and you let me do the work. We’ve done this before.”

“I could _hear_ before. And I could handle a weapon.” Putting the documents on the cot beside him, Clint leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“You’re wrong.” The words came out as a snap as she rose, removing her coat completely and tossing it at her cot. When she turned back to him, her eye were fierce. “You need this, Clint. You need to get back in the game. That’s what we’ve been training for –“

“I’m not ready –“ 

“How do you know?” Her voice actually echoed in the small room, and Clint blinked in shock. In the three years he’d known Natasha he’d never heard her raise her voice that way. Never heard that kind of ….fear?

“Tasha -?” He rose, starting towards her, but she glared at him, the fierce anger fading into a different sort of anger – at herself, for letting the emotion show, for giving herself away.

“We’ve been working hard,” she said, and he could still hear the tremor in her voice, even if she didn’t want to acknowledge it. “And you’ve achieved so much – even Fury is impressed. He didn’t think you’d be able to function without the aids, but you _can_ , and you’re even better with them.” She approached him this time, stopping well within his personal space. “But you don’t see it. You don’t let yourself see it.”

She raised her hands, signing her next words. _See it, Clint. See what Coulson and I see._ She paused, and he watched her pull herself together until it was as though she’d never lost control. “Coulson talked Fury into letting you come,” she said aloud, pushing him down onto the cot, and tossing the bundle of papers back into his lap. “Read the background. Play your part. All you have to do is be there.”

He waited until she was seated next to him to reply, shifting so their legs touched. “So, you said no paperwork, right?” he said, voice light. “I just get to ogle you all night?”

Her smile was soft and she reached up, trying to flatten his hair. “I brought the black dress.”

He chuckled, nudging her with his shoulder. “So we’re back to tension relief, huh?”

“It always comes back to tension relief.”

His lips quirked, but after a moment he started fiddling with the papers on his lap again, tension still pulling at his shoulders. Natasha stilled him with a hand on his. “Trust me.”

Lifting a finger against her hand, Clint tilted his head towards her. “I do.”

“I’m not putting myself, or the mission in danger,” she said, voice soft. She still had her hand over his, remarkably gently considering what her hands could do. “We’ll see how your aids work with the comm system, let Coulson order us around a bit, and see whether you’ve regained enough balance to dance with me.”

“The last being the most important?” he teased, leaning back against the wall and flipping his hand into hers for a moment.

She shook her head, but she was smiling. “No, the second. Coulson likes to boss people around. Especially you. I think he misses you.”

Clint snorted. “I don’t know why. I’m constantly giving him grief.”

“That’s why.“ She leaned back next to him, their shoulders touching. “I think he likes that you’re not scared of him. Makes him feel human.”

“Huh.” The silence stretched between them, comfortable this time, and eventually Clint found himself starting to relax. He didn’t even flinch when a log fell in the stove. “Three weeks of intel gathering, and we get a cabin with a stove, Natasha, really?” He raised an eyebrow, tilting his head towards her. 

She made a face, wrinkling her nose in a way he thought was adorable, although he’d never dare tell her that. “Nights before and after events, we get real hotels,” she said with a sigh. “SHIELD wouldn’t splurge for anything else.”

“So, not just tension relief, but body heat?” He shifted a little, balancing the documents on his knees as he shifted out of his coat. “Good thing that’s another of my talents.”

Natasha nudged his shoulder, smiling. “We’ll be fine if we keep the stove going.” She pointed to his bundle again, then rose. “Learn that. I’m going to go grab the rest of the gear.”

“You sure?” She nodded, so he stretched his legs out, letting his attention fall to the papers.

~*~*~*~

**One Week Later**

Closing his eyes, Clint pressed his hand against his forehead, taking a deep breath in. Counting out to twenty, he then released it just as slowly, leaning heavily against the wall of the bathroom. The wave of nausea faded, but the pain didn’t and he reached up with a shaking hand to loosen his tie, feeling a bead of sweat roll down the centre of his chest. “Fuck,” he murmured, taking one more breath before opening his eyes. The sight that met him in the mirrored wall was not at all comforting – he couldn’t go back out there like this.

He raised his hand again, flipping his comm back on. “Coulson?”

“You okay, Barton?” His voice, flat and uninterested sounding to most people, carried with it a trace of concern. Clint could hear Natasha as well, carrying on an animated conversation with one of the attendees. “It’s not like you to be AWOL –“

“Headache,” Clint replied, swallowing heavily. “The aids, and the comm, and the noise –“ He pulled himself off the wall, moving towards the sink. “Or, I dunno, something. Never been this bad before.” 

The headaches had started after the accident and so far, no one in medical had been able to trace their cause. Off duty, he could usually just sleep them off – usually heavily drugged – but tonight? Tonight they had a job and he was a liability.

“You need to pull out?” Coulson asked, and Clint could already hear him ruffling papers as he asked, shifting in his chair, probably to signal a companion.

“I don’t know –“ Running the tap, he took a drink, then ran his damp hand over his face. It got rid of the sweat, but not the pallor of his skin and the dark circles. “How’s Nat doing?”

Instead of responding, both he and Coulson fell silent, listening. “Nurik –“ Natasha giggled, and Clint could picture her, cheeks flushed, tucked against the man she was speaking too. “What would my husband say if he heard you say such a thing?” 

It was up to Clint then, they could pull out if necessary and it wouldn’t break their cover. Taking another deep breath, he glanced in the mirror again, squinting a little against the lights. “No,” he said, finally. “We stay until it’s over.” He stood up straighter, pain shooting down into his neck. 

He must have failed to suppress a gasp, because the worry in Coulson’s voice increased. “Clint –“

“It’s’allright.” His words mushed together and he took another drink of water. “Look, there was a balcony over the main floor, right? Stairs near the back of the ballroom. Strategic retreat.”

Natasha’s voice cut in. “This is stupid, Barton.”

Straightening his tie, Clint opened the door to the bathroom and glanced out into the hall. Fortunately, there was no one around. “’Nat, I need this.” He was using her own words against her, and her silence said she knew it – and that she knew he was right. 

The silence stretched as Clint started back towards the ballroom. It was Coulson who finally replied, all trace of worry gone. “Take the balcony, Barton. A couple more hours, and we can pull out.”

“Got it, boss.” He wasn’t certain, but Clint was pretty sure he’d heard Coulson snort at that. 

Natasha was waiting for him when he hit the ballroom, holding a glass of water. As he took it from her hand, he leaned close – the doting husband. “Stay out of trouble,” he murmured, then kissed her softly, brushing a length of hair behind her shoulder. “I’ll be watching.”

Her hand stroked up his arm, coming to rest against his neck, finger tucked into his collar. This close, she let the worry show in her eyes, letting the character slip for a moment. He brought his own hand up to clasp hers, kissing it before nodding towards the balcony. It took a moment longer than it normally would have, but she pulled away, striding back into the centre of the ballroom. 

“I’m heading to the north side,” Clint said, keeping his voice low as he moved along the wall towards the stairway. “No one up there, so it should give me a clear view.” He fell silent then, moving slowly, but managing, he hoped, to make it look casual, rather than pained. 

“Natasha’s attracting some attention to the east,” Coulson reported, voice pitched a little lower than usual. Clint suspected it was out of respect for his pounding head. “And Kalmakanov’s finally arrived. Keep an eye out once you’re above.”

“Got it.” Clint took the stairs slowly, pausing occasionally to glance out over the floor. To the casual observer, it looked innocent enough – a man enjoying the scenery - but for Clint it was steadying. Finding Natasha in the crowd helped keep his head from spinning.

By the time he’d reached the upper balcony the nausea was back and he muttered to himself, hanging on to the railing and breathing deeply. Eyes closed, he focussed on Natasha’s voice, flirting with her mark, and eventually Coulson’s, pulling him back. “Breathe through it, Barton,” Coulson said, voice still softer than usual. “Keep it together.”

Clint grunted, taking another breath before opening his eyes again. “I’m good.”

“That changes, you tell me.” An order this time and Clint’s lips quirked. Natasha was right, he did like to order people around. “Got it?”

“Yep.”

He held on to the railing a moment longer, then started moving slowly around the balcony. It covered the entire perimeter of the ballroom, letting anyone above see what was happening below. When he reached the north side, he paused again, arms on the railing. 

The party was still in full swing, but he easily identified Natasha below, off to his left, talking intimately to an older gentleman, who seemed to be getting rather…friendly. He heard her chuckle through the comm and watched her slide her hand up his arm in almost the same move she’d used on him earlier. But instead of tucking into his collar, her fingers just rested on his shoulder as she leaned up to whisper in his ear.

Clint rolled his eyes, pulling them away from Natasha and scanning the room. Slowly, he started to tune out the conversation over the comm, hearing it, but not registering its content. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence. In fact, if it weren’t for the pounding in his head, and the lack of weapon in his hand, it would almost feel _normal._

Carefully, Clint started to skirt the balcony again, watching the crowd mingle, the people drinking and laughing. He registered a change in the music somewhere in the back of his mind, and the dance floor started to fill up again, couples coming together in a formal waltz. His eyes flitted away, in search of Natasha, and he found her, directly under him this time, with a different man, this one sterner, less friendly. But he could see the man was beginning to melt under Natasha’s gaze.

As he pulled his eyes back to the dance floor, a small flutter of light off to the left caught his eye. For a split second, he didn’t react, thinking it was an aura brought on by his migraine, but when the flutter didn’t return, he turned his gaze left, studying the crowd below.

_Nothing._

A blinking bulb maybe, or a tray catching the light wrong. He frowned, tapping his finger on the railing in time with the pounding in his head. Finally, he started back in the other direction, eyes still focussed on where he saw the light. And then he saw them.

Two men stood near the base of the stairs he’d taken earlier. That in itself wasn’t strange: space was at a premium below, and a quiet corner was difficult to come by, but there was something _wrong_ about the two. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.

“Hey, Nat?” He could hear her speaking softly to her current mark, but knew she’d heard him, something in her tone changed. Quickly, he identified her position in the crowd, then found his men again. “Your 5 o’clock. Two men by the stairs.” He shifted, feeling adrenaline start to pump through him, which, unfortunately, brought an additional wave of nausea with it. 

He shuddered through a deep breath, then continued. “There’s something –“ And then he saw it: the way the taller man’s tailored suit jacket hung slightly open at the front, the way both men had their jackets buttoned, in an over-warm room full of men who’d unbuttoned theirs hours before. “The taller one’s got a gun, Nat.”

He started along the balcony, hoping to get a better view of the second man. Before he caught it, Coulson came over the comm. “Kalmakanov’s people are the only ones armed, Barton –“

“These guys aren’t his.” He squinted, pain shooting down into his neck again. “Second one has a bulge in the small of his back. Unless they build men differently over here, that’s a .38.” 

“Barton –“

“I _know,_ Coulson. I’m up here trying not to puke, and you have absolutely no reason to believe this isn’t bullshit, but I know what I’m seeing.” The whimper of pain as the adrenaline kicked up again probably didn’t help his case either. He took a breath, grasping the railing. “Just send her over there. If I’m wrong, she can brush past them up the stairs… “ His voice dropped. “Think I might need her anyway.”

“Natasha –“

“Already on it.” 

Knowing she was focussing on the two men, he turned his gaze to her, watching her glide through the crowd. He tried once again to use her to stop the spinning, but as the pain ramped up, he faltered, head buzzing as the world shifted around him.

“Clint.” The voice came through the haze of pain and Clint groaned, starting to return to consciousness. “Barton. Report.” Louder this time, and it might have been the pounding, but Clint thought he heard a trace of concern.

“Shh, Coulson,” he murmured, risking opening his eyes. The light blinded him, creating more pounding behind his eyes, but he kept them opened, letting them adjust. He was still on the balcony, but everything was sideways. “Pounding.”

“I know.” Less worry. Amused frustration. All business. “What’s your status?”

Clint let his eyes start to search the balcony. “Everything’s sideways…” 

OK, that was definitely a snort of laughter. “You lost consciousness, Barton. Can you sit up?”

“Hang on.” He shifted slowly, every movement making his head pound. The pain was radiating downwards, stiffening his neck and shoulders, and he whimpered, biting his lip. “I’m alone. Ears still in.” He made it to a sitting position, blackness swimming at the edge of his vision. “Where’s Nat?”

“Handling the two men,” Coulson replied, voice quiet. “Keep talking.”

Taking a deep breath, Clint glanced around again, starting to take in the sounds as well. “Party’s still going. Music’s different. Sounds like Bach.” Back against the railing, he started to push himself up, fighting against the blackness. “I was right about the men?”

“It’s Mozart, Barton.” There was a trace of amusement there again, Clint was sure of it. “No status on the men yet. They were definitely armed, but we’re not sure of their intent.”

Clint grunted as the world swung again and he clasped the railing tightly, trying to keep his footing. “What’s Nat’s ETA, Phil?” His voice cracked on Phil’s name, desperation making him lose all sense of professionalism. He slid back down the railing, seating himself against it. “I’m not gonna be able to walk out of here on my own.”

The admission bothered him, but he knew his limits, and right now, he was well beyond them. The world was still spinning around him, and the vise grip on his head was still tightening across his neck and shoulders. 

Coulson was silent long enough that Clint thought he’d lost him, then he heard his voice again, a little strained. “No ETA.” A pause, and Clint could hear movement over the comm. “Hang on five minutes, Barton. I’m coming in.”

“You can do that?” Clint brought his knees up, letting his head fall forward and closing his eyes. “I feel like there’ll be some kind of end-of-world scenario if that happens.” In the moment of silence that followed, Clint imagined he could see Coulson’s eye roll. 

“Just keep talking, Barton,” Coulson replied, and Clint heard the sound of a door closing on the other end of the Comm. “You still at the north end?”

“Uuh –“ He opened his eyes and blinked. “Yeah. Staircases lead up to the south, and the north, I’m at the north end.” He studied his surroundings. “There’s a tapestry on the wall –“ He tilted his head to glance at the south end balcony. “The south end has paintings.”

“Good. Almost there, Barton.”

“How’s Nat doing?” Clint closed his eyes again, bringing his hand up to his neck, trying to massage the tightness away. It wasn’t very effective, but it was distracting.

“She’s fine, Clint,” Coulson said, voice soft. “We’ve got her on another channel.”

Clint nodded, then frowned as the music below changed to something more upbeat, with way more bass to be comfortable in his current state. While the pounding in his head synced to the beat, he moaned. “How’d we go from Mozart to _dance club_ for fuck’s sake?” 

“Breathe, Barton.” The voice was right next to him and he reacted on instinct, rising quickly, and jumping back several feet, arms up in a defensive position. The wave of pain and nausea that followed took his breath away and he started to slump, only to be caught by Coulson. “Jackass.”

Coulson lowered him to the ground, kneeling next to him, a steady hand on his arm. “Jesus, Phil, how long have you been doing this, and you sneak up on a guy?” He breathed deeply, trying to get the nausea to pass. 

“Got distracted by Natasha on the comm,” Coulson said, by way of apology. “She finished up with your guys – she’ll meet us back at the hotel.” He rearranged himself, sitting down next to Clint, and reaching into his jacket.

Clint raised an eyebrow. “You packing?”

“This’ll take the edge off,” Coulson said, revealing not a gun, but a syringe. 

Clint groaned, and for the first time in the last two hours, it had nothing to do with pain. “You know I hate that shit.” Phil’s look was sympathetic, but he still nodded towards Clint’s arm. Shifting forward, he let Phil help him out of his jacket, then rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. “What’s the plan to get out of here?”

“Through the kitchen.” Clint focussed on Coulson’s hands, watching them prepare the syringe, then sink it into his arm. It wasn’t the first time Phil had had to do it – hell, it wasn’t even the 20th, but it still shocked Clint that he did it with such ease. “Davies will have a car for us.” 

Clint nodded, still watching Coulson’s hands as he rolled the sleeve of his shirt down and did up the button. Like Natasha had earlier, the movement of Coulson’s hands was helping him focus. When Coulson picked up his jacket, Clint finally pulled his eyes away, and felt a snap of pain through the base of his skull. 

Tilting his head forward, he took another deep breath, feeling Coulson’s hand on his arm again. “It’ll kick in soon.” The hand squeezed and remained there, grounding him. “Let me know when you’re feeling it, and we’ll get moving.”

Clint nodded, continuing to breathe deeply. As he did so, he could hear Coulson speaking softly, presumably into the comm, and based on the radio silence in his own ears, on a different channel. Then, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, he felt the knots in his neck and shoulders ease, the pain fading just enough to make it bearable. 

“Phil?” He turned his head, meeting Coulson’s eyes. 

“Pain’s ebbing.” It wasn’t really a question and Coulson rose, brushing off his slacks. 

Clint nodded, reaching a hand out to the railing for support. The pull in his shoulders was gone, and the sound he made was one of relief. He rose slowly and this time, when the world spun, he caught himself more easily. “Fuzzy though.”

Coulson touched his arm gently, helping steady him as he stood. “We can work with fuzzy.”

Still wobbling a bit, Clint stepped away from the railing, moving experimentally. The vise grip on his head was nowhere near gone, but it had been downgraded to manageable levels. The fuzziness, on the other hand, was steadily increasing. “We should move. Now.”

It was Coulson’s turn to nod. They’d dealt with this drug before, on other missions, and he knew as well as Clint did that their time was limited. “Take a left at the bottom of the stairs,” he said, watching Clint as he took a few steps away from the railing. When he didn’t stumble, they both relaxed, and Coulson’s attention turned to the comm. “Beginning egress. Davies, meet us out back in five.”

~*~*~*~

Clint awoke to silence, but this time, instead of the uncomfortable med-bay bed and an unexplainable humming, he felt the softness of a duvet and heard, very faintly, the sound of tapping. He smiled softly. “It’s not the keyboard’s fault, ‘Tash,” he murmured, voice muffled by the pillow his face was crushed into. “Go easy on it.”

The bed shifted – a body moving away, and then back – and Clint opened his eyes to find Natasha’s face mere inches from his own. “Morning.”

“Morning,” he replied, shifting a little so his face was no longer quite so crushed. He stayed burrowed under the covers though, still feeling groggy from the drugs. “How long was I out?”

“Nine hours.” She reached out, brushing a finger along his temple. “They were plotting to assassinate Kalmakanov. The two men, and two others, one of them from his inner circle, like SHIELD thought.” 

“And you took care of them?” She smiled. Given the context, it should have been frightening, but Clint knew her too well. “That’s my girl.”

She shoved him and he laughed, rolling onto his back. “Bastard,” she muttered, close to his ear. He felt her pull away a little, but when he turned, she’d just returned to her previous position lying next to him. “I took care of them,” she confirmed. 

“Good,” he replied, voice soft. He rolled back onto his side, pulling the duvet with him. “Does that mean we’re done?”

She nodded. “As soon as you’re up and moving.”

“I’m sort of comfortable here.” She rolled her eyes, and he grinned, flipping onto his back again, and bringing his arms up behind his head. “Well, my bed at HQ is basically shit.” 

She sat up, leaning over him. “You have an apartment, Barton. “

“I have orders to stay on base, Nat. In and out privileges, sure, but I’m supposed to –“ She put a finger to his lips, cutting him off with a shake of her head. His brow furrowed in confusion as she rolled off the bed. “Nat –“

His eyes followed her across the room, where she retrieved his hearing aids, tossing them in his direction. She waited until he had them in, then moved towards the window, her back to him as she spoke. 

“Last night was a test.” She raised her hand before he even had his mouth open – the universal signal for _shut the hell up._ When she reached the window, she turned, sitting on the sill. “It was an actual mission,” she clarified. “Intel gathering, like I told you, but when Coulson went to Fury about it – when he requested you join the mission – “ She paused, looking uncomfortable. 

Suddenly, Clint’s mouth went dry. Pushing the covers back, he started to rise. “You said I wasn’t active! You didn’t tell me –“

“I didn’t _know._ ” Her voice was fierce and she crossed back towards him, sitting on the edge of the bed and tugging him back down. “Coulson didn’t tell me. He didn’t want either of us to know – he didn’t want it to colour the mission.”

Clint ran a hand through his hair. He was used to SHIELD’s bullshit, but this burned. “I don’t get it. You were the lead, Nat. I wasn’t armed. Neither of had the full story. What was the test?”

“Fury wanted to see if you could handle yourself, if instinct would kick back in, despite your disability.” She slid closer to him, their legs touching. “If you made it through, he’d update your status. If you didn’t …”

He tilted his head towards her. “I’d be teaching Archery at a boarding school in Switzerland?”

“Turkey, maybe.” Her smile was soft, and he answered it with one of his own. It was nervous though, he was still uncertain. He wouldn’t be certain until she said the words.

The silence stretched a moment and then he reached for her hand, squeezing tightly. “I know finding the bad guys was pretty impressive,” he began, voice wavering just a bit. “But Coulson had to come in –“ He let his voice trail off, raising an eyebrow.

She shook her head and this time, her smile was definitely amused. “He had to pull us both out in Madrid.” He opened his mouth to speak and she put hand over it. “We fly back to New York at 1800. You’ve been released from medical leave, but not fully reinstated. You can go back to your apartment, and back to the range.” After she said the last, she released him. “You are not going to Turkey, or Switzerland, or any place else.”

“I didn’t think – “ It was like a weight had lifted. He reached out on impulse, pulling Natasha into a hug. For a moment, it was awkward – this wasn’t a form of affection she was used to – but then she relaxed against him, wrapping her own arms around him in return.

“I knew,” she whispered, mouth close to his ear. “There was no other option.”

He held her another long moment, then released her, giving her a soft smile of apology. She rose, brushing a hand through his hair. _Apology accepted._ “Get dressed. Coulson wants a debrief.”

“I thought this was a freebie for me?” Clint asked, rising from the bed and starting towards his duffle. His head still felt a little fuzzy, but he knew that would pass with a quick shower. “No paperwork?”

Natasha rolled her eyes, retrieving the laptop from the nightstand she’d placed it on earlier. “That was before you saved the day.” Her smile was barely a twitch of her lips, but he saw it. “Let that be a lesson to you. I’m the one who saves the day. You just stand around and look hot.”

Clint chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Unzipping his bag, he pulled out a change of clothes, then carefully removed his hearing aids, laying them out on the dresser. “Tell Coulson to give me twenty – I need to get rid of the fuzz in my brain.”

He turned in time to see Natasha settle herself back on the bed, laptop on her legs. She didn’t bother speaking – they’d found, since his accident, that sometimes they preferred the intimacy of their mish-mash of signs – but her reply had nothing to do with intimacy.

_Good luck with that._

~*~*~*~ 

**Three Weeks Later – Christmas Eve, 2006**

Their return to base had been uneventful, boring almost. Somehow, in their absence, people had “forgotten” about Clint’s injury. It was never mentioned, never implied by any agents. As far as Clint could tell, it wasn’t even whispered about in the hallways as he walked by. The knowledge had simply vanished. 

None of them could figure out how the order had come down, or how it was maintained, but Clint, Natasha and Coulson knew what it meant: knowledge of Clint’s disability was now Eyes Only. It was not, and never could be, common knowledge, both for Clint’s protection, and for SHIELD’s. 

Even Clint’s file, pulled with Coulson’s clearance, had no record of its permanence. But what it did have, which surprised them all, was an entry dated November 19th, indicating that surgery to repair “hearing damage sustained in an explosion” had been completed successfully at a SHIELD facility in the UK. The linked file included pre-surgery blood work and a release form, signed by Clint. 

The hearing aids appeared a week after their return. Sleek, SHIELD built technology that all but vanished when inserted. And even those weren’t meant to be permanent. Included in the box was a note – from Fury himself – promising better tech in the future. The promise shocked them all, but most especially Clint, who couldn’t help but feel his respect for Fury grow. 

Upon their return, Natasha and Clint had one goal in mind: get Clint back to active duty as soon as possible. It was that goal, on top of a desire to return to peak form, that had Clint on the range now. Aids out and bow in hand, he stood facing his target, but, for the moment, concentrating on the sounds around him. 

For the most part, there was nothing and that was something Clint had gotten used to in the months since his accident. But occasionally, something came through: the muffled sound of gunfire from the other end of the range when the door was left ajar, the overloud laughter of agents going off duty, or the soft murmurs of normal-pitched voices close by. If he concentrated, he could position them all, and the thought made him smile as he lifted his bow towards the target. 

It was a shot he could, and had, made blind, but the change in his balance had caused a frustrating shift here as well. A shift he hadn’t completely learned to compensate for without his aids in, and a shift he was determined to overcome. 

_Enough waiting._

He fired, feeling the bow string vibrate against his fingers, and hearing the soft ping against his ear as it let loose. He repeated the shot – once, twice, five more times – before dropping his bow again, frowning at the target. Four were dead centre, exactly where he’d aimed, but two others were off by an inch in either direction. 

A movement behind and to the right caught his attention and he turned, raising an eyebrow. 

"You’re thinking too hard.” Natasha was sitting cross-legged on the counter that ran along the back of the range. She’d positioned herself so she could be seen in his peripheral vision. It was another habit they’d developed – an early warning system, of sorts. From that position, she could warn him if anyone else was coming. 

"I made four that time.” He crossed to the counter, putting his bow down and standing in front of her. 

“And the other two were still dead, even if you missed the eyeball,” she admitted, uncrossing her legs, and putting them down on either side of his. “But you’re not hitting the mark. You’re _thinking._ You told me once that after the first shot, it was 80% instinct.” 

He didn’t respond and she didn’t speak, waiting for him to think things through. “And I’m slow,” he said, finally. “In the time it took me to reload that third shot, someone could have taken me down – or you.” 

She nodded, laying a hand against his chest. “You can do it with the aids in,” she said, giving him an appraising look. “There’s no delay, and you make every shot. So what’s the problem?" 

His lips quirked. “I’m thinking too hard?" 

Giving him a gentle shove back in the direction of the target channel, she raised an eyebrow. “Once more, then you’re taking me to dinner." 

"It’s Christmas Eve, Nat.” He moved back towards her, planting himself between her legs again. “I’m not taking you to dinner, I’m cooking you dinner.” 

This time the raised eyebrow was incredulous. “An actual meal?” 

Chuckling, he reached for his bow as he backed away. “Yes, I can cook actual food.” As he started to turn, he frowned, looking back at her – even after three years, he was never quite sure when something would make her skittish. She seemed fine with it, but -- “Is that OK?” 

She hopped off the counter, landing gracefully and coming towards him. For a moment, he couldn’t read her, and then she smiled, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Sounds perfect.” 

~*~*~*~ 

**Christmas Morning**

Clint awoke in darkness. He was in his bedroom, curtains drawn to cover the sliding door that led out to the balcony. The single, dim stream of light pushing through the curtains told him it wasn’t yet dawn, so he hadn’t been sleeping that long. 

He could feel the slight dip of the bed behind him where Natasha still lay at his side, could feel the tension radiating off her and knew that that was what had woken him. Of the many habits they’d developed since his hearing had been damaged, sharing a bed – sharing the protection it afforded them both – had been the easiest to fall into. She was his ears when he removed his aids, and he was her eyes when she needed a full night’s rest. 

Sliding his hand under his pillow, he grasped the gun he kept hidden, then rolled to face her in the darkness. As he took in the sight of her, he could see that she wasn’t worried. Whatever had woken her, whatever had caused the tension that hadn’t yet faded form her body, she’d already determined it wasn’t a threat. Still, he lay the gun down between them, within easy reach, before he started to sign. 

_What did you hear?_

A single sign. Easily recognised. _Coulson._

Clint rolled onto his back, tucking the gun back under the pillow. Natasha rolled with him, resting her head on his shoulder and laying her palm out on his chest. He ducked his forehead against the top of her head, letting his finger slide up her spine. They stayed like that until the tension left them both, then Clint raised his head. 

“Stop skulking, Coulson,” Clint called, feeling Natasha’s chuckle against his skin. He didn’t hear Coulson’s reply, but Natasha chuckled again as she pushed herself up, using his shoulder for leverage. Reaching over him for his hearing aids, she dropped them on chest, then gestured to their clothing. Coulson was worried about walking in on them in a state of undress – or worse. 

Rolling his eyes, Clint started to put in his aids. “You’ve seen us in our underwear before,” he said, loud enough to be heard through the bedroom door. He raised an amused eyebrow at Natasha as she slipped out of bed – her tank and loose shorts offering far more coverage than some of the outfits she wore. 

"On missions,” Coulson replied, pushing open the bedroom door and leaning on the jamb. To Clint’s amusement, he was keeping his eyes away from Natasha as she pulled on her jeans. “This is private.” 

“And yet you let yourself in.” Clint sat up, running his hands through his hair. Natasha had finished dressing and was sitting on the edge of the bed at his feet. “What going on? Thought you’d be spending the day with your sister.” 

Coulson’s lip quirked. “I’ve got a few hours on that. It’s barely four.” 

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Clint gave Coulson a look. “And –“ 

“And, I came to make you breakfast.” 

Clint glanced at Natasha, who raised an eyebrow at him, then then turned his gaze back on Coulson. Their handler merely stared back, as though this was something that happened every day. “Breakfast.” 

"Breakfast.” 

"At 4 am?” Coulson nodded. “On Christmas morning?” 

“You had other plans?” Coulson asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Well, Clint couldn’t argue with that. He pushed back the covers and climbed out of bed, grabbing his jeans. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture,” he said, moving to his closet for a clean t-shirt. He stifled a yawn. “It’s just unexpected, that’s all.” 

"You’ll adjust.” 

He’d left his place in the doorway by the time Clint pulled the shirt over his head, and Clint shrugged at Natasha. _This is weird, right?_ he signed. 

She nodded. _But he’s feeding us, so it can’t be bad news._

_He might be trying to keep us away from the knives._

Natasha snorted, rising from her place on the bed just as Coulson’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Frying pan, Barton?” 

Grinning, Clint squeezed Natasha’s shoulder on his way by. “Cupboard next to the stove." 

Natasha fell in beside him as they exited the bedroom and then they both stopped suddenly. His living room, which had been barren the night before, was now decorated with coloured, twinkling lights. In the corner of the room, on top of a cabinet, was a sad-looking tree, but it was brought to life by tiny gold balls and the tacky multi-coloured garland Coulson had hung around it. 

"Coulson –“ Clint began, taking several more steps into the room. His chest was tight, but this time, it wasn’t anxiety, it was something else entirely. His eyes fell on the tree again, noticing the presents beneath it and shook his head, astounded. 

Clint had been young when his parents died and the years after were a blur of small towns and cities; long days, and even longer nights. He couldn’t remember a time when Christmas wasn’t just a regular day; when anyone had bothered to try to make it anything else. He glanced at Natasha, whose look mirrored his own, then met Coulson’s eyes across the room. 

Coulson smiled. “It’s Phil today.” 

It was Natasha who moved first, crossing the room and kissing Coulson – Phil – gently on the cheek. Phil’s eyes went from smiling to shocked, but quickly returned to smiling as he placed a gentle hand on Natasha’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas,” he said, in flawless Russian. 

She responded in kind, then turned towards Clint. And if her eyes looked shiny? Well, that would stay among the three of them. 

"You know,” Clint said, crossing the room towards the tree. He touched one of the balls, watching it shine in the lights. “Orthodox Christmas isn’t for another 13 days…” He was trying to break the mood, and from the looks on their faces, they both knew it. 

Phil actually rolled his eyes. “Been watching The History Channel on your downtime, Barton?” 

"I’ll have you know I –“ 

“French toast. Bacon,” Phil cut him off, raising an amused eyebrow. “And if I can get some help in the kitchen, we might even be able to manage a fruit salad.” 

"I can give you a hand with that,” Natasha said, nodding towards the kitchen. 

Phil immediately turned back towards the kitchen, but Natasha remained, watching Clint from across the room. After a moment, she crossed towards him, bringing her hand to his cheek. 

"He’s a good friend,” she said, softly. “To both of us.” 

Clint tilted his head, surprised. Natasha didn’t trust Phil, or she hadn’t. He was an authority figure and no matter what assurances Clint gave her, in the three years since she’d joined SHIELD, he’d never been able to convince her that Phil was a good guy. 

If Natasha was counting Phil among her friends something had changed; something he’d clearly missed. But whatever it was, he was glad it had. 

"He is,” he agreed, squeezing her hand. “I –" 

Coulson’s voice floated out of the kitchen. “I believe I was promised help…” 

Natasha laughed, a smile spreading across her face. “Coming, boss." 

~*~*~*~ 

They ate a leisurely breakfast in Clint’s kitchen, elbows bumping and feet knocking together under the too-small-for-three table. It wasn’t the first breakfast they’d shared in such close quarters – Clint could remember more than one instance where they’d eaten as a tangle of limbs while trying to keep warm – but it was the first time it had been Clint, Natasha and Phil around the table, rather than Hawkeye, Black Widow and Agent Coulson. 

“He walked across someone’s clothesline – between buildings – carrying his bow in one hand, and a Glock in the other.” Phil pointed his fork at Clint then speared a piece of melon, raising an amused eyebrow. “He took down two guys with the Glock, jumped up onto the neighbouring rooftop and landed at my feet with a shit eating grin – and that’s when the bullet from the _third_ guy caught him in the thigh.” 

Natasha gave Clint an incredulous look and he just smiled back, spearing his own piece of fruit. “What? They didn’t shoot at you in the circus – “ _Much._ “Besides, this one was supposed to be watching my back.” He gestured to Phil, who just shook his head. 

"I was too busy trying to figure out what I was going to tell Fury when we had to peel you off the alleyway.” His lips quirked into what Clint was pretty sure was a fond grin. “I was not expecting a tightrope walk in the middle of an op." 

Clint grinned, cocky. “Just trying to keep things interesting.” 

"Like you even need to try.” Natasha rolled her eyes, slapping his hand away from the last piece of bacon and taking it for herself. Her look dared him to try to take it back, and he considered it, then quickly changed his mind, settling for more fruit. “Wimp.” 

It was his turn to roll his eyes, leaning back his chair, fork still in his hand, slice of orange speared on the end of it. “I think you should tell Phil what _really_ happened on that op we had with Sitwell.” The look she gave him had instilled fear in thousands, but he just chuckled, popping the orange into his mouth. “Or I could tell him?” 

She growled and this time Phil chuckled, reaching forward, rather bravely, to touch his fingers to her hand. Her glare turned to him, but it faded when she saw the look on his face. “You know already." 

He nodded, rising and taking his plate to the counter. “You think I don’t recognise your signature, Natasha?” he asked, amusement in his voice as he leaned against the counter. “Besides, you don’t get bruises like that walking into a door, or whatever ridiculous story he put in his report.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Natasha shook her head, using her fingers to steal a piece of melon from the fruit bowl. Her expression was remarkably open – surprise, maybe a little bit of fear – and Clint did his best to hide his own shock. It was so rare for her to show any of that, particularly in front of Phil Coulson. 

The silence stretched for a moment then Phil spoke, his voice level. “I need to get going.” 

Clint made a face, then rose, carrying his own plate to the counter before reaching out to squeeze Phil’s shoulder. “Thank you for all of this,” he said, voice softer than he’d intended. He ducked his head a moment and when he raised it, he was smiling. “Been a while …” 

Phil nodded, placing his hand over Clint’s a moment. When he pulled it away, he rubbed his hands together, smiling broadly. “You guys have presents – I want to see you open them.” 

Running a hand through his hair, Clint frowned, glancing over at Natasha. With a shrug, she rose as well, placing her plate in the sink. “We didn’t get you anything.” There was a trace of …something…in her voice: a mixture of sadness and embarrassment. 

"We didn’t really expect this –“ Clint offered, meeting Natasha’s eyes again, before turning back to Phil. “I mean – “ 

Phil held up a hand, waving it towards the living room and dismissing their words. “Technically, I didn’t get you anything either,” he said, then chuckled at their confused expressions. “Everything under that tree is SHIELD issue. I _ordered_ it, but I didn’t _buy_ it.” 

Natasha snorted. “Semantics." 

"Perhaps,” Phil conceded with a shrug. “But still true.” He glanced at his watch quickly, then gestured towards the living room again. “Come. I think you’ll both like these." 

They followed Phil into the living room, taking a seat side by side on the couch while he headed towards the tree. It wasn’t until Phil’s back was turned that Clint nudged Natasha, then started to sign. _We have to do something._ He gestured unnecessarily in the direction of the presents, frowning thoughtfully. 

She shrugged in reply, but her expression was just as pained as his. _You could offer to complete your paperwork on time._

Clint’s frown turned into a glare, but Phil’s voice stopped him before he could reply. “Completed paperwork would be the perfect present,” he said, raising a disapproving eyebrow. 

Clint felt like a kid caught passing notes in class and ducked his head a moment, embarrassed. “Sorry, boss.”

“Phil.” He sat on the coffee table opposite them, a large box in his lap and a much small one on the table next to him. The disapproving eyebrow had vanished, but his expression was serious. “Need you guys to promise me something, before you open your gifts.”

Natasha’s knee pressed against Clint’s and he dropped his hand to her thigh, lightly. “What’s up, bo – uh, Phil.” He grinned, and was relieved when Phil grinned back.

“This thing you guys do –“ He looked between them, taking in Clint’s hand on her thigh, and their body language. “The signing. The small gestures. I’m picking up a word here and there, but - ” 

He paused, and Clint nodded. “We’ve been practicing some different dialects,” he admitted, looking embarrassed again. “ASLs a little…standard.” He tilted his head, running a hand through his hair. “They seem to come easy, so – “

“You’ll teach me.” It wasn’t a question and it was in Coulson’s No Argument tone, but Clint’s gaze still flitted to Natasha first, waiting for her nod before he’d even consider responding. She nodded, but before Clint could say anything, Phil talked over him. “It’s going to be important. I need to know what’s happening; when something isn’t right.”

Clint felt guilt wash over him, but he didn’t apologise, he knew that wasn’t what Phil wanted from them. He was there to protect them, and he wanted to ensure he could do that. Nodding, Clint squeezed Natasha’s thigh. “Didn’t seem too important, considering –“ 

Lifting the box off his lap, Phil placed it in Clint’s, forcing him to move his hand back to steady it. “Open that.” 

Raising an eyebrow, Clint looked at Phil in confusion, but started to tear at the paper when Phil nodded towards the package. It tore easily, revealing a hinged black box, remarkably lightweight. Shifting it in his lap, Clint turned the latches towards him and flipped them up, lifting the top of the box. The contents took his breath away. “Phil –“ He glanced up to see Phil smiling at him, felt Natasha glance over his shoulder and her sharp intake of breath. “It’s beautiful.” Reaching inside, he lifted out the bow, letting Phil pull the box off his lap to place on the floor. 

The bow was folded in on itself, made smaller for transport, but even without opening it Clint could see its design, and its power. After a long moment, he stood, stepping away from the couch, and flicked his arm, watching with eyes wide as the bow took its shape. “Jesus, Phil –“

Phil rose, coming to stand next to him. “It’s a prototype.” He reached for the bow, and Clint passed it to him reluctantly. “The grip, here – once its properly programmed, you’ll be able to select arrow types with the press of a button. And this – “ Turning his wrist, he showed them both a small switch, dull black like the bow, barely noticeable. “-- it sends out a short pulse, that’ll alert Natasha and I if you lose your ears. You’ll have to activate it, but at least we’ll know you’re OK.”

Returning the bow to Clint, Phil took a step back to give him room to manoeuver with it. Giving Phil a quick grin, Clint turned his attention back to the bow, feeling the weight of it in his hands, raising it to feel the pull of the string against his fingers. “This is beautiful,” he said, voice catching. Lowering the bow again, he swallowed, clearing his throat. “The weight. Everything. It’s perfect.”

Phil sat back down on the coffee take, nodding. “They followed the specs of your current bow pretty closely. Still, there’s more tech involved here, so that’s bound to change the behaviour.” He paused a moment, barely long enough for normal people to notice, but Clint looked up, meeting his eyes. “I suggest you get some practice in before we leave tomorrow.”

Clint blinked, glanced at Natasha – who looked as shocked as he felt – then raised an eyebrow. “We –“

“We,” Phil replied with what was definitely a smirk, despite his attempt to hide it. “ **We –** “ This time he over-emphasized the word, leaving no doubt he was talking about all three of them. “Leave for Bangkok at 0500. Full cover for Natasha. Rafters for you.” He nodded towards the bow. “So, if considering that a Christmas gift is really a problem, we can go with reinstatement gift.”

Clint backed himself against the wall, not trusting his knees to hold him up. He was watching Phil carefully – couldn’t help it, after being so sure, for so long, this would never happen – but Phil couldn’t be screwing with him. Wouldn’t be. He knew how important this was. “Fu – “ He gulped in air, relief heavy in his chest. “Full reinstatement.”

Another nod of Phil. “Medical cleared you ages ago; your numbers are excellent on the range – your accuracy well above the standard for active duty. You’ve kept yourself in peak physical condition.” He paused and the tone of his next words was different, no longer all business, but back to _Phil_. “Fury’s biggest concern has always been communication. If a mission goes south, if you lose your ears, how do we reach you?” Nodding to the bow again, he frowned. “There’s no perfect solution. The bow will let you alert us if something goes wrong. Our usual tracking software will let us see _where_ you are. But the way I see it, and what I convinced Fury to see, is that it comes down to trust.”

Clint raised an eyebrow. “Trust?”

“In your judgement, mainly,” Phil said, and Natasha snorted. Phil turned to her, giving her a look somewhere between amusement and annoyance before turning back to Clint. “Can we trust you to make the right call? If a mission goes pear-shaped, can you handle yourself without someone screaming in your ear?”

Clint looked over at Natasha to find she was watching him. He kept his eyes on her as he spoke. “Obviously, Director Fury decided I could be trusted?”

This time Phil snorted, taking them both by surprise. When they turned towards him, he was smiling. “There was no decision, Clint. When it came down to trust, there wasn’t even a question.” He rose, taking the bow from Clint’s hands and showing him how to collapse it. “You _question_. You don’t disobey outright. And, despite a slight saviour complex –“ He nodded towards Natasha. “You have good judgement.”

Clint couldn’t help looking towards Natasha again, only to find she was watching him as well, eyebrow raised, her lips curved into a barely noticeable smile. Her hand moved casually, but she wasn’t hiding the signs – she wasn’t hiding from Phil.

_Semantics again._

Phil rolled his eyes, and Clint shook his head, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. Three years ago – bringing Natasha in – had been the closest Clint had ever come to direct disobedience, and Natasha was right, the distinction was one of semantics. 

He had disobeyed mission parameters, not a direct order. On paper, the order to bring Natasha in – to deviate from the mission – had come from Coulson, but in reality, it had taken three days of stubborn wheedling on Clint’s part to convince him: and on day two, Coulson had had the paperwork for Clint’s reprimand already written up. 

It was shredded on day three, but it had been a close call. 

Phil put the bow down on the coffee table to free his hands, then turned his gaze on both of them. His signing was slow, unpracticed, but there was no mistaking his words. _I have no regrets._ He dropped his hands, raising an eyebrow in Natasha’s direction. He didn’t ask the question, but the look on his face said it – _Do you?_

Her headshake was barely noticeable, but Phil nodded, gesturing to the box on the table. “You next. It’s not as fancy as Clint’s, but I think you’ll like it.” 

“If its weaponry, she’ll definitely like it,” Clint quipped, returning to his spot next to Natasha. She nudged him, leaning against him maybe a little longer than necessary, and when she pulled away, her knee remained pressed against his. 

Phil sat down across from them again, handing Natasha her gift. “You were harder,” he admitted, as Natasha started to peel back the paper. She was being careful, picking at the tape with her nail, rather than ripping, and Clint suppressed a smile. “Your skill set is different. Unique. This had to be too.” 

Natasha glanced up at Phil, her face unreadable, as though she wasn’t sure what to make of his words, wasn’t sure what he was _suggesting_ by them. Clint frowned, touching her thigh gently to catch her attention, and when she turned, he shook his head. She held his eyes a moment, then turned back to Phil. “Open it,” he said. Clint heard the apology in his voice, caught a trace of sadness that Natasha probably missed. “You’ll see.” 

Peeling her eyes away from Phil, Natasha carefully unwrapped the rest of the present, handing the paper to Clint. His lip quirked, and he resisted the urge to roll it into a ball, instead placing it on the couch beside him. The box she’s uncovered was dark-stained wood, the pattern of a delicate rose carved into the top of it. She raised her eyes, meeting Phil’s. 

“Ok, so the box wasn’t SHIELD issue…” He leaned forward, slowly and opened the lid on it. “But these are.” 

Clint frowned, glancing from the box, to Phil, then up to Natasha. “Chopsticks?” 

That broke the tension and Natasha chuckled. “Hair sticks, Clint.” She carefully pulled one out of the box, and on Phil’s nod, pressed the end of it. A small blade popped out of the thinner side and Natasha’s eyes went wide – and feral. Then she smiled. “Perfect.” 

Phil returned her smile. “There’s another set coming,” he said, sitting back again. “But R &D had some issues with the plunger.” 

"For drugs.” It wasn’t a question and Natasha nodded in approval, visibly relaxing from her earlier tension. “Thank you.” 

"You’re welcome.” Phil leaned forward again, laying a hand over Natasha’s. Neither said anything, but their eyes met and Clint watched them carefully, unable to pull his eyes away from the intensity of their looks. Then the moment passed, and Phil rose. “You guys get some rest, and be on the jet at 0445 for pre-flight.” 

“Got it, boss.” Clint rose as well, following Phil towards the door, Natasha right behind him. “We’ll get some practice in with the new toys, then crash for a few hours.” 

Phil slipped his arms into his coat, giving Clint a look. “Don’t overdo it, all right? I need you focussed, not high-strung. Couple hours, tops. Then you two relax.” 

He was using his _Coulson_ voice, and Clint smiled. “Got it.” 

Turning to Natasha, Phil gave her a soft smile. “Keep him in line, hrm?” 

Natasha nodded, leaning in to kiss Phil’s cheek again, gently. “Merry Christmas, Phil.” 

“Merry Christmas, guys.” 

~*~*~*~ 

**Bangkok – December 31, 2006 – 0300 hrs**

Clint awoke as the bed gave next to him, dipping just enough that his own body shifted towards the intruder. Rolling in the opposite direction, he came to his feet on the far side of the bed, gun in hand. The blonde sitting on the edge of the bed merely smiled at him. 

"Natasha –“ 

"You’re getting better at that, “ she said, reaching down to unzip her boots. She tilted her head towards him, so he could still see her lips. “You started to twitch before I hit the bed.” Her smile turned to a smirk as she tossed her boots aside. “Of course, I could have killed you from the doorway.” 

Clint lowered his gun, placing it on the side table before rolling his shoulders to get rid of the tension. “Seriously, Nat? This is a game now?” 

She shrugged, flipping her legs onto the bed and leaning against the headboard. “You need the practice, and I enjoy the look on your face,” she said casually, giving him an amused look. “It’s like sparring.” 

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Clint ran a hand through his hair, frowning. “Not sure this one is going to get much better than it already is, Nat,” he replied, giving her a sad look. “It’s hard to anticipate what you can’t hear.” 

Natasha watched him for a long moment, eyes unreadable. “You should have your aids in.” There was a trace of concern in her voice, easily hidden from anyone else, but not from him, not after all this time. “This place isn’t as secure as I’d like, and –“ 

It was the closest she’d get to expressing worry and Clint gave her a small smile before flopping back on the bed, head in her lap. “Coulson ordered me to get some _real_ sleep,” he said, watching her carefully. Her expression didn’t change. “He’s been out there all night, Nat. And trust me, he’s just as dangerous as you.” 

She gave him an incredulous look, but started to relax, bringing a hand down to the top of his head to tug at his hair. “Colvitz is moving tonight.” Her other hand came down to rest on his chest, over his heart, and she closed her eyes. “If we’re going to take him down it’s got to be today, or we’ll lose him.” 

“Where’s he going to be?” 

“He’s got a meet downtown at 0800.” Her hand brushed at his hair. “Another at 1100.” After a moment, she opened her eyes, looking down at him. “No clear shots for those though. Too many innocents.” 

Clint frowned. “So his hotel’s the best shot we’ve got. “ On Natasha’s nod, Clint let his eyes drift closed. He’d checked out the hotel when they’d arrived, walking its perimeter and the surrounding blocks, looking at the sight-lines. The buildings in the area were tall – hotels and office buildings, maybe a condo or two - but they were also close together, which made any shots difficult. 

And then there was the problem of the windows. Getting Colvitz out on his balcony was the easiest way, but there was no way to guarantee that, and if this really was their only chance … 

“There’s a building to the northwest, back from the street, but with roof-access. Fire escape. Easy in, easy out.” He paused, brow furrowing in thought, and eventually he felt Natasha’s fingers tapping against his chest. He waited, translating her slow tapping – Morse code – then opened his eyes. “The window is a problem,” he agreed with a small nod. “But SHIELD been working on …” 

It was only because he was watching her carefully that he caught the look of fear that crossed her face, because as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. Sitting up, he laid his hand over hers on his chest. “The worst I can do with them is cut myself, Nat,” he whispered, squeezing her hand, knowing she could feel the calluses and scars on his own against her skin. “And I’ve done that a thousand times.” 

She met his eyes, holding them for a long moment, letting emotion show through as she brought her hand up again to run through his hair. Then the moment passed, and he watched the mask go up again. “Northwest of the hotel?” 

He nodded. “Should give me a clear shot.” 

"And the arrows –“ 

“Straight through the window, no breakage, apparently.” He shrugged, shifting on the bed to sit next to her, shoulder to shoulder. He gave her a wry grin. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

She returned his grin, then rested her head on his shoulder. Neither of them spoke, or moved letting the silence press in. Clint was just starting to drift off again when Natasha touched his thigh. Ducking his head towards her, he raised an eyebrow. 

"Coulson’s outside,” she said, shifting away from him. “You need to get moving." 

~*~*~*~ 

“This sucks, Coulson.” Clint shifted in his perch, feeling the water squelch in his boots as he did so. It had been raining since dawn, and now, at well after 1700 hours, Clint was beginning to lose patience. He had no cover and there was no sign that their mark was returning to his hotel. “It’s a fucking monsoon out here.” 

“It’s not a monsoon, Barton. It’s a rain storm,” Coulson replied, and Clint was pretty sure he could hear the eye roll. “Although, I’ll admit a pretty impressive one.” 

Clint snorted, pulling at his collar in an attempt to get the rain to stop running down his back. “Spoken like a man in a nice, warm hotel room.” He repositioned himself, making sure he had a good view of the hotel across the street. Still nothing moving. “We’re sure this is the location? He didn’t change hotels?” 

"Natasha’s intel was sound,” Coulson said, with a touch of impatience. 

Clint wasn’t sure if it was directed at him, or the mark, but after eleven hours in the rain, he also wasn’t sure he cared either. He brushed his sleeve across his eyes as the wind shifted again, blowing rain into them. “Dammit, Coul –“ A light came on in the third floor window across the street, drawing Clint’s eyes. He could barely see through the teeming rain, couldn’t really make out anything beyond the light itself. “Third floor, north side, fourth – no, fifth window over. Is that his room, Coulson? Can you confirm? I can’t see shit in this storm.” 

"One moment.” Clint could hear Coulson typing, probably checking the schematics of the building. “That’s his room. Is he there?” 

Wiping at his eyes again, Clint shifted. “There’s definitely movement in the room, but I can’t – fucking _rain_.” Without taking his eyes off the window, Clint moved to the right, skirting closer to the edge of the rooftop. It was a dangerous gamble – the roof slippery in the rain – but he needed a different angle. “I’m seeing two bodies. One matches his profile.” 

"Can you make the shot?” A pause. “Can you make both shots?” 

Clint grumbled, mostly to himself, and steadied himself on the edge of the rooftop. “Thought I stopped having to make trick shots when I left the circus,” he muttered, loud enough for Coulson to hear, but not actually expecting a response. His next words were more audible. “There’s no way I can make two shots in succession. It’s too wet and the visibility is shit out here – I’m going to try …” He trailed off, pulling two arrows out of his quiver and nocking them, tracking the two bodies in the hotel room as he did so. “Let’s hope these arrows work better than the last experimental set,” he murmured, biting his lip. “We’re sure it’s not just housekeeping, boss?” 

“Yeah, we have audio-confirmation. One of them is definitely Colvitz. You sure about this, Barton?” Coulson’s voice was perfectly level, but Clint frowned anyway. 

Moving his left foot, Clint grunted, pulling back the bow string. “No. But I _am_ sure I can’t make them in succession and that in this mess I can’t tell which is the mark. This is the only way.” 

“Do it.” 

Another grunt and Clint narrowed his focus to the window, watching the figures move inside. The taller moved left behind the curtain, while the other moved right, and Clint cursed quietly, narrowing his eyes. “Come on. Just a few feet back to the right. I need to see you.” 

The minutes stretched and Clint’s fingers twitched on his bow string, impatient. Feeling his shoulders start to tense, he released a slow breath, blinking raindrops off his eyelashes. 

“Status, Barton.” Coulson’s voice was quiet, clearly not wanting to break Clint’s concentration. 

Clint took another breath. “Can’t see the taller guy,” he said, equally quiet. “ Wait –“ There was movement in the hotel room, the man appearing from the left, while the other moved towards the window. Clint cursed again – the shot was not ideal, but if he didn’t move, he’d lose his chance entirely again. Shifting his stance, he instinctively changed his grip as well, then loosed his arrows. 

And the men fell. 

"Barton?” 

“Targets down. Clean shots,” Clint replied, bringing his bow down to his side and flexing his fingers. “Window is intact, so we can congratulate R &D for not fucking up this time.” 

“Thank God for that,” Coulson muttered, and it was clearly meant for Clint’s ears only. “Pack it up; I’ll arrange to dispose of our friends.” 

"Got it, boss.” Clint collapsed his bow, moving away from the edge of the roof. It was still pouring, and now that his focus wasn’t on the opposite side of the street, he could feel the water trickling down his back again. Crouching to pack away his gear, he tried not to shiver. “Hey, boss?” 

“Yeah, Barton?” 

“The safehouse has hot water, right?” 

He heard Coulson chuckle. “And towels. Get yourself indoors. I’ll take care of everything else.” Clint nodded and started to move, but Coulson’s voice interrupted him. “And Clint?" 

“Yeah?" 

“Welcome back." 

**Author's Note:**

> Clint's hearing damage is comic canon, although it is also magically fixed, as comic canon often is. I've spun it to make it SHIELD's fault, but I have no doubt I will eventually be "Joss-ed".


End file.
